just thinking of your face
by thesaturnyear
Summary: Adele gives me angsty Brittana feelings. Future fic.


Santana stomped the snow from her boots and followed Brittany into the house, taking the seat she indicated to her at the kitchen table. Brittany got a canister of coffee and two mugs out of a cabinet and put a pot on to brew before turning to Santana. She didn't sit, just leaned against the counter and studied her, and Santana cleared her throat awkwardly.

"So. Hi."

"Hi."

A thousand questions raced through Santana's head but all she said was, "Your house is nice."

"Thanks," Brittany said, a small smile playing on her lips. Brittany was never good at hiding her feelings and Santana relaxed at the knowledge that she wasn't mad at her for showing up unannounced after nearly ten years, at eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning.

"I live in Chicago now," Santana said, even though Brittany hadn't asked. She didn't know how to say the important things she came here wanting to say, like _do you think of me_ and _are you happy_, so she started with the unimportant things.

"Cool. It's really windy there but I like the trains," Brittany replied, and the answer was so Brittany that Santana had to smile too.

The coffee maker beeped and Brittany turned back to the counter, pouring them each a cup. She added milk to both and then sugar to just one, and handed the milk-no-sugar mug to Santana as she sat down across from her at the table.

Santana took a sip of her coffee, letting the warmth of the mug seep into her cold fingers.

"What do you do?," Santana asked.

"I'm a therapist."

Santana hoped her shock didn't show on her face; even though her father always said psychologists weren't real doctors Santana knew that there was still a lot of schooling involved in becoming a therapist. The Brittany she'd known didn't exactly mesh well with school.

As if she could sense Santana's confusion, Brittany continued.

"Yeah, I do movement therapy. With kids mostly, but sometimes adults too."

Now that made more sense. Brittany had always been better at speaking with her body than with words, and over the years Santana had learned to understand her language. She had a hundred different kisses and Santana knew them all. The last one she'd ever gotten was a goodbye; it was soft and sweet and contained ghosts of all the other kisses - the _I love you_s and _I need you_s and _Don't leave_s. She thinks that's why she disappeared, in the end. Because even when she got Brittany to stop talking, Santana could still read in her body every word that she wasn't yet strong enough to hear.

"I bet you're really good at that."

Brittany just smiled.

"I'm an ADA. Assistant District Attorney," Santana offered, as a way to continue the conversation.

"I know. I mean, I know what an ADA is. Not that you are one. Well, now I know but I didn't before," Brittany stammered.

Without thinking, Santana reached her hand across the table and placed it over Brittany's. Brittany was still for a moment then pulled her hand away, not unkindly but pointedly, wrapping it around her coffee mug.

"Why are you here, Santana?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes. Please."

"I don't really know."

"Then I don't know what else to say. We can sit here and talk about our jobs and the weather but I know that's not why you came."

Santana suddenly felt 18 years old again, the weight of words unsaid suffocating her. She straightened her spine and turned to get her coat off the back of her chair, but before she could stand up and walk out Brittany spoke again.

"You could have called first."

"Didn't have your number."

"You found my address, Santana, I think you could have found my phone number too."

Santana settled back in her chair and let out a slow breath.

"I was afraid that if I called you wouldn't speak to me. Or would tell me not to come. Or that someone else would answer your phone." The implication of her last statement hung heavy in the air, but Brittany ignored it.

"I wouldn't have done any of those things. I was mad at you for a long time, and then I was sad, but now I'm just... not. It's been a long time."

"I'm sorry," Santana said softly, running her thumbs up and down the mug in her hands.

"I know."

It was a start, at least.


End file.
